The entire apartment was one corner of a large old house in a poor and fairly dangerous section of Detroit. The most she could say about it was that he kept it clean, and so far, bug-free. That was the reason she had taken it, aside from the incredible light that came into the kitchen. It was one of the only places in her student price-range that didn't have a roach or a rat included in the dcor.

"Nothing like being a poor student, huh?" He flashed that smile again. "I know what it's like. I was there once."

She leaned against the table, hugging her arms over her belly. She realized she was still wearing her apron, and it reminded her of the world she had been flowing through only moments before. That world seemed impossibly far away. She untied the apron and tossed it behind her onto the table.

She regretted uncovering herself a moment later as she turned to find his eyes locked on the light blue tank-tee she was wearing. With a swallow, she watched as those eyes slid down her form to the faded jeans that hugged her slight hips. If she could have stepped back, she would have, but the table stopped her. His eyes flicked back and forth between her breasts, as if trying to decide which to settle on. He reached his left hand out, a large hand with a thick gold and diamond band on the ring finger, but she rounded her back like a hissing cat, crossing her arms over her chest.

This had all been negotiated last time. He wasn't to touch her. This was a simple barter agreement. He withdrew, his eyes flickering with some sort of heat that Ellie could almost feel.

"All right, come on then, starving artist." He took the few strides to the futon and settled himself down onto the black cushion over the sweeping white oriental symbol for "prosperity." He looked out of place here, as out of place as she might look at a cocktail party, she imagined. She found herself gnawing the inside of her cheek as he leaned back and unzipped his trousers. "Let's see if we have something for you to eat."

That first time, it had been no surprise to her that his cock was as slick and smooth as he appeared, his dark pubic hair neatly trimmed. What had surprised her was the texture of him, unlined and unveined, with the smoothness of velvet around the tip, and even more unexpected was the benign taste of him, a bland shock, like a bowl of oatmeal or cream of wheat. As she knelt before him, the carpet digging into the tender flesh of her knees, she watched him stroke that unwrinkled shaft emerging from the fly of his finely pin-striped Montefino trousers, his eyes slipping closed, his nostrils flaring in anticipation. She leaned in, careful not to touch him too much, balancing herself with one paint-stained hand on the edge of the futon between his legs, still startled by the lack of aroma as she slipped the head of his cock between her lips